


hello, my stranger.

by wanderlustt



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: And then breaking up and making up, Angst, F/M, Lots of Angst, Then breaking up again, breaking up, we are here for pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: A king's mistress is never really a king's mistress."She was the mistress that could never be, except the word mistress has all but lost its meaning. It could mean everything and nothing at all and no one would ever know. But everyone and their mothers would try to scrutinize what’s not there anyway. And there is no meaning—not anymore, anyway."
Relationships: Alistair/Amell (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	hello, my stranger.

**Author's Note:**

> fuck u alistair for tellin me im gonna die right after u tell me u cant have babies and that ur gonna marry anora. why do i still love you, u fake ass bitch

(It’s over.)

The wounds on Amell’s body heal with a whisper of a spell. They are easy fundamentals, the first lessons the senior mages offer in The Circle, but the scars are still fresh. They taste like Alistair’s wet lips and his sighs of ‘ _I love you’_ and _‘I’m sorry_.’ The declarations and apologies work in tandem, never one without the other, but the effect is the same. He’ll never declare his love for her again without an echo of an apology.

Because it's over (but it’s not really over).

They make empty promises without any expectation of keeping those promises. At least Amell does. _A king can do whatever he_ wants, she thinks. _And I can do whatever I want_. So she agrees to be his mistress, but she doesn’t really agree to being anyone’s anything. They’re just words she tosses around with reckless abandon in the throes of fucking. And it comes with the hope that they never come back to bite her.

(They will, though, and they do.)

Silently, she hopes he won’t remember them when morning comes. (He does.)

And then she leaves, thinking it's over. He has his duties; she has hers. She attends his wedding and puts on a brave face. She offers the necessary pleasantries. _You’ll make a fine king. Well done._ She means it (but she doesn’t overstep her boundaries either). With Anora’s perceptive gaze, she’ll learn to never outstay her welcome in the throne room. Even if Alistair is looking at her with those puppy-dog eyes, a relic of a bygone era.

He’s sterner now; doesn’t ask how she’ll fare. Just thanks her for coming before moving on.

It’s over (and it feels like a lifetime before she can admit to herself it’s really, really over).

She leaves behind the tapestry that’s supposed to be a wedding gift from the King and Queen. A portrait of Alistair and Anora and a new Ferelden. _A new kingdom_. She figures there’s no use for it on the road, even lesser use for it in The Circle. It’ll elicit all sorts of unwanted questions—and some answers she’s yet to reconcile with. She rolls up the tapestry and leaves it at the foot of her bed.

Yes, it’s over (but it still burns the same).

Even when Alistair comes to bid farewell to their merry band of misfits. He’s smiling.

“Will you be alright?”

No one else answers. It takes her a moment to realize he’s posing the question at her. But the silence stretches too long, and he reaches a hand out to pat Oghren on the shoulder. “Don’t drink yourself silly. There are bandits on these roads and you—” A nervous laugh, when he realizes Amell isn’t even looking his way. “On second thought, maybe you ought to have a pint or two more on my account.”

Oghren just mumbles something tasteless and agrees.

“So, you’re returning to The Circle.”

"That I am," she figures she owes him this much.

“Do you, uh, have any idea what you’re going to do when you get there? Give good ol’ Irving a run for his money? His loft in the tower was always the bi—”

“Is there something you need?" She saddles her horse and studies the road ahead. "I should get going."

He looks hurt but doesn’t offer an apology. She’d prefer it that way. The old Alistair would’ve batted those puppy-dog eyes, which meant the onus was always on her to apologize first. The cruelty was hidden away in the details, but nowadays she didn't do much to hide it at all.

“I’m starting to get the feeling you’re not exactly—oh, what’s the word I’m looking for— _happy_. With this arrangement, I mean.” He searches her face for some kind of answer, but she looks perfectly indifferent. “Are you? Unhappy?” When her answer doesn’t come instantaneously, he goes on. “Never mind. Stupid question. Of course you’re unhappy. You’re getting the short end of the stick.”

Amell sighs, “Alistair. You’re overthinking.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You are."

Everything she says is barbed with poison and _spite_ and all he can do is look at her with all the hurt in the world. “I can visit,” he says, a little more pleading this time, and she gets a flash of the old Alistair from once upon a time—suited with a face of the new Alistair, which is much more morose.

“If you’d like,” she says.

He pauses. “Not exactly a portrait of a perfect invitation.”

“Alistair, you can visit if you want. If you don’t want to visit, that’s fine too. I’m not holding my breath.”

“You could say that about anything. _I could eat supper if I want. If I don’t want to eat supper, that’s fine too_.” And then, with a bit less pause. “You’re really going to talk about what we had like you’re talking about supper?”

She offers him a smile, one that he believes.

“If you want me, just write me.”

"I will," he says, resolute.

She just climbs onto her horse, looking down at him for what might be the last time.

“I’ll see you when I see you.”

Before Alistair can get in a word edgewise, before he can even offer a whisper of goodbye, she takes off down the road alone and never turns back.

It’s over, and it’s easier said than done.

She throws herself into work. Transfiguring the Circle, relieving Irving from his duties, taking over as First Enchanter, and offering her counsel to the other circles in Ferelden that are also in the process of rebuilding.

She takes Dagna under her wing and enjoys whatever time off she can glean in between.

And then she meets another enchanter from a Circle near Redcliffe named Merwin.

He spoils her with compliments that don’t go unnoticed, sends her flowers, and visits often. They form a mutual kinship that never goes past friendship, but his incessant need to keep in contact has her thinking about him more than she’d like. She starts confiding in him. She tells him about her most radical ideas that would probably have her branded as a heretic, and he listens to her like she’s the only thing left worthy of listening to in the world. She offers her insecurities too, and he tells her she could rock this kingdom if she so wanted. She believes him.

She finds comfort when she least expects it, but he never pries past respect. The compliments are less bloated now. He admires her too much—and eventually that admiration transforms into respect, and eventually that respect turns into love. Yes, love. She thinks she loves him, but she doesn’t come to terms with it until she catches him bringing her favorite cakes from Redcliffe.

Neither of them acknowledge this, but both of them know. It’s not right for two mages to fraternize, especially two mages in positions of power. So they send each other letters via ravens and never get past the _I-miss-yous_ and _I-long-to-see-yous_. They visit each other too, but the separation makes them fonder.

Alistair writes her too, but his letters often go unread. She’s not so cruel as to burn them in the hearth, but she goes from collecting them like precious treasures to collecting them like they’re the burdens of record-keeping. Some future scholar is going to read their correspondence and prescribe it all the meaning in the world—meaning where there is none. _The mistress that could never be_ , except the word mistress has all but lost its meaning. It could mean everything and nothing at all and no one would ever know. But everyone would try to scrutinize what’s not there anyway.

And there is no meaning—not anymore, anyway.

It’s _over_ , and it doesn’t burn anymore. There is comfort to find in waiting. Time heals, or so they say, and they would be right. The pain subsides, the wanting wanes, and suddenly you’re looking out the window to see a very familiar hooded-cloak pulling in on a boat, carrying a bouquet of flowers with a dopey little smile on his face.

These are traditions she thought were corny once; they have now turned into traditions that she finds comfort in.

Until the hood is pulled back and she realizes it’s Alistair.

The smile vanishes from her face when he arrives in her loft. “I see you’ve co-opted the First Enchanter’s loft. I suppose congratulations are in order.” He leans in for a kiss on the cheek, but she turns away before he can make contact on skin. She settles at her desk while he stays in the frame of the doorway, looking very struck about her response. “Uh, right.”

“Why are you here, Alistair?”

“Well, hello to you too, First Enchanter.” He pauses. “Not quite the greeting I was expecting. Also not a great way to be greeting your king, but—you know—there are lesser hills to die on.”

She just stares at him.

“Unless you want me to, of course?”

“Alistair. Why are you—” She sighs, resisting the very tempting urge to rub away the headache that’s yet to actually form in her head. “Don’t have you things to do?”

He looks hurt. “I did.” The jokes on his tongue evaporate into the ether. “You didn’t write.”

“So you thought the next best idea was to visit?”

He lowers the bouquet of flowers onto the empty chair in her office. He understands. He’s wiser now, and whatever fight he had about this once upon a time is gone. He could now see where he was unwanted.

“I just thought what we had meant something.”

“It meant everything to me, and now it means nothing.” She decides not to beat around the bush, and he’s shockingly cool about it.

“Is there someone else?”

She pauses. Nods.

“And you didn’t think to—” He stops himself, probably wondering if it’s fair to harp on this when he’s married to Anora. “Never mind. There isn’t much for us to discuss here then. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Alistair.”

“What?”

She comes to him at the doorway and presses the gentlest kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry.” _I can’t give you what you want_. _You can’t give me what I want either_. They are words that neither of them admit, but words they both know to be true.

But he kisses her instead. Truly.

On the mouth, tongue probing—

“ _Alistair_.”

Disappointment—that’s all she has left in her face. But he doesn’t care. He reaches for the tassels of her dress and she doesn’t stop him until she’s naked on her desk and he’s buried inside her. She had been his first time, but he had been just one of many for her, and yet the itch they’re scratching now is the same.

He’s panting on top of her when it’s over, and for what it’s worth, none of the future exists here. No Anora, no Merwin, no Circle, no Ferelden. Just Amell, Alistair, and the desk underneath their naked bodies. She could laugh about it, but it's too somber, so she just runs her fingers through his hair and wonders if this is good enough for goodbye.

“I loved you,” she tells him. _More than you could ever know_.

He sighs, “I still love you.”

“Soon enough you won’t. You’ll learn to love Anora the same, once you give her a chance.”

He falls silent. Once upon a time, he would've said _I don't think so_ , but the claims fall empty now that there's nothing left to salvage here.

 _I learned to love you too_ , _Alistair_.

Spend enough time with someone and you learn to love them, and the rest of the battle is putting in work to make it work. It's just some small part of the longer progression. Sometimes it lasts; sometimes it doesn’t. The passion wanes. There are circumstances you think are permanent that untether themselves from your fate; the trick is recognizing the moments that might not ever last. A journey that comes to inevitable end.

But for now, he holds onto her, fingers digging into flesh—no thoughts of tomorrow. She holds him too, but this comes with the revelation that she’ll never hold him like this again.

 _It sure was beautiful while it lasted_.

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to taeyeon's 'what do i call u' and really thought she said 'hello my stranger' but it turns out she said hello you're a stranger but i like hello my stranger better and thus it is
> 
> breakups are so fun to write
> 
> im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt), talk to me about dragon age :3


End file.
